


A Cherry Float

by DoreyG



Category: Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Batman can be a meanie, Episode Tag, Episode Tag: Riddler's Reform, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight, <i>tonight</i>, the habit of a lifetime is going to be broken. Tonight, <i>tonight</i>, he’s going to grab one (or several, he’s not picky) of those lucky ladies and end his enforced celibacy with a bang. Tonight, <i>tonight</i>-</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cherry Float

The party is going well, everything is going _well_. His plan is working perfectly, and he’s giddy with the realization of it – triumph singing in his veins in a way that makes him want to spin and spin and _spin_. He’s fooled his doctors, he’s fooled the judge, he’s even fooled _Baxter_. Nothing stands in his way, absolutely _nothing_.

And he’s finally going to get to reap some rewards.

“You’re adorable,” he says to himself in the mirror, and can’t quite help a giggle from bursting out. He has a phonecall waiting for him, but he’s pretty sure that it can _keep_ waiting. He _is_ adorable – ruffled red hair, sharp green suit, and that _mind_ so impossible to ignore. Who wouldn’t want him? Who wouldn’t find him just _darling_?

He giggles again, examines his flushed cheeks in the mirror with a certain amount of _glee_.

For tonight, _tonight_ , the habit of a lifetime is going to be broken. Tonight, _tonight_ , he’s going to grab one (or several, he’s not picky) of those lucky ladies and end his enforced celibacy with a bang. Tonight, _tonight_ -

He’s already hard at the thought of it, awkward in his trousers in that very specific way that he knows so well. He grunts, annoyed at his weakness, shifts on the balls of his feet. He should just answer his phonecall now, hope that it’s boring enough to kill his eagerness before he has to get back to the party. There’ll be time, for all of this; he just has to be patient, _patient_.

…Even though there will be time.

Time enough for _multiple_ rounds, with all this pent up frustration that he’s been carrying around for _years_.

He examines his face in the mirror again, closer. Casts an impartial eye over his flushed cheeks, his neat hair, the rise and fall of his chest, the forgiving cut of his ever so stylish suit that’ll _surely_ cover any and all indiscretions. As long as he’s careful, of course; as long as he doesn’t make his compulsion _too_ obvious to those raving sycophants waiting out there.

He licks his lips.

The decision, in the end, is remarkably simple.

He’d feel guilty about doing this here, with all the party guests and his _employer_ just a door away, but guilt is a very relative concept and he’s _never_ been much interested in relativity. He pops the button on his trousers, awkwardly wriggles his hand inside. The position is hardly the best, but he’s been in worse.

Brenda, wasn’t that the name of the brown haired women? Pretty, with curving lips and _sinful_ eyes. 

He got himself off in Arkham regularly enough, with all that screeching and hollering and awkwardly placed glass, he can _definitely_ manage it here. He can’t help a gasp at the first touch of fingers to sensitive skin, bites his lip _very_ firmly as he gets his hand into a more interesting position. He can’t have anybody bursting in on him, after all – not here, not _now_.

He has a good imagination, it’s one of his charms. With only a little effort he can call up the image of Brenda kneeling at his feet, staring up at him as if he’s a _god_. His fist doesn’t feel much like a mouth, or at least he assumes that it doesn’t, but _imagination_. He can see her fluttering her eyelashes up at him, flushing at the revelation of him, opening her _mouth_ for him. She’d look so very pretty, on the ground. She’d be so enamoured that she’d do anything that he said.

…But.

It isn’t working. She’s too pliant, too passive. The image of her in his mind winks at him, and it just sends him… Bored. Annoyed. _Disinterested_.

He glides his hand down his cock, bites his lip in annoyance. The sensation is still there, but with half the puzzle pieces missing it’s _meaningless_. Pointless. A distracting irritation as opposed to something burning hot and irresistible, passionate and _needed_ like he always imagined the loss of his pesky virginity going.

Okay, then, another. That blonde woman, who he can’t quite remember the name of. She was also pretty enough, interested enough. Temptingly curved, underneath the petty covering of her dress.

_That’s_ better, a bit. He speeds up his hand on his cock, starts _pumping_ instead of merely tracing like a timid virgin. His breaths come in gasps again, the lust pools warm between his legs. There’s sensation running down his spine, like the trail of fingertips, and he arches into his – snarls hotly between his teeth because _this_ is most _definitely_ more like it, pretty much.

He’d press her back against the mantelpiece and she’d pout at him, laugh with her blonde hair falling dizzily all over her shoulders. She’d take charge this time, not him. Would have her hand down his front before he could even think about instructing her, would be in his trousers in a matter of seconds and circling her hand around him as he whined. Her grip would be a bit rough at first, a bit _awkward_ , but she’d soon learn. Before long she would be pumping him like a pro, her hand just _this_ side of painful and her face-

…But.

It’s wrong, _again_. She’s too visible, too _ordinary_ for him. A normal human, with a normal face – who would want that? It’s boredom to the extreme, a dull stretch of grey that leaves him… Cold.

He lowers his hand to the base of his cock. Squeezes there, gnaws on his lip even harder-

The Batman.

He tightens his grip until it’s actively painful. Gnaws on his lip so hard that his teeth actually go _through_ and come out bloody.

The _Batman_.

The very thought excites him, sends him dizzy in a way that neither of the previous did. His hand drifts from the base upwards, in a proper _stroke_ that sends his breath trembling and his limbs shaking. A haze has come over his eyes, and it feels _good_. A low flutter has started up all over, just under his skin, and it feels _perfect_.

The Batman. The _Batman_. Dark, mysterious, faceless, _perfect_.

He keeps pumping, faster and faster. His cock moves through the circle of his fist beautifully, like a work of ultimate beauty. The details, the catch of his hand and the budding pleasure, are precise. This is an exact art, and the knowledge of it only serves to drive him higher, faster – the air in his throat catching around the only worthy opponent that he’s ever faced.

Batman, so strong and tough and _perfect_. Forcing him away, dragging him in with such hot _longing_ that he giggles breathlessly at the very _thought_ of it. They’re made for each other, after all – the only worthy opponents in the world. He would push Batman back against the mantelpiece, like _so_ , and he would go with a fight – would only calm when he was trapped, pressed right back. He would fight even then, so _hard_. His mouth would taste like the darkest temptation, teeth catching around his lips, and _his_ only desire would be to _chase_ it. Down, down, down.

He rubs his hand briefly over the head, and then down again. He’s not going so fast that he’s a blur, that isn’t even _possible_ , but he somehow feels like he’s close. He can’t really control himself, in a way that is entirely new. His pace keeps quickening and quickening, raising and raising until he’s just a shudder away from spoiling _everything_. He claps his free hand over his mouth, but he isn’t sure that it does much good. He tries to slow down, but he’s pretty sure that he doesn’t succeed. He tries- and _fails_.

The thought of Batman, pressed against the mantelpiece with his cowled forehead brushing against the glass of the mirror, is too difficult to resist. He’s never been inside another person before, not even his tongue, but he can extrapolate the sensation well enough. Batman would be tight, _so_ tight, and so hot. The slide into him would be quick, but slow. His eyes would be closed, they’d both be shaking. A sweet submission, so _very_ well fought for. He’d move, he’d thrust, he’d shake, he’d shudder. He’d-

Ah-

The thought of Batman rolls his hips, gazes at him sultrily through the mirror.

Ah-!

And he rolls back, rubs his fingers over the head of his cock again, _gasps_.

_Ah_ -

And Batman stiffens beneath him, growls beneath him, closes his eyes and rumbles and _shakes_.

_Ah_ -!

He comes in a rush, coiling into himself inevitably as the pleasure thrums through his veins. For a long few moments there’s only light and pressure, the mental image of Batman staring down at him with burning eyes. He can’t breathe for a while, the air still catches in his lungs even as he comes back to himself in slow increments. There’s a stain on the carpet, smudged against the ever so expensive fabric. It doesn’t matter, much. He scuffs his heel over it absently, continues to pant.

Mm.

“ _Mm_ ,” he murmurs, resting his head against the hardness ( _Heh_ ) of the mirror and panting his way through the aftermath, “Mm, _Batman_.”

“Speaking.”

He does, to his extreme pride, avoid knocking himself out completely against the mirror and ruining all of his plans before they come to fruition. Unfortunately he fails to avoid _banging_ his head against the mirror, swinging around so quickly that he dashes his elbow against the mantelpiece and gaping like a particularly unattractive fish, “wh-wha- _What_?”

Batman only stares at him impassively. The only movement on his face being a slight twitch around his lips, a subtle sign of amusement that leaves his blood boiling in a way that he _cannot_ deal with right now.

“How long have you been there?” He demands, well aware that his voice is shaking with the effort. His fingers clench and unclench behind him, his chest continues to heave, he’s well aware that his pale skin is bright red in a way that _really_ doesn’t help his case.

“Long enough,” but nor does Batman – moving, moving, coming to stand before him with eyes flashing and mouth still so curvingly amused, “put yourself away, we _need_ to talk.”

He tries to pretend that that’s not a turn on, with his fists still clenched and his eyes still narrow, but he’s pretty sure that he fails yet again.


End file.
